Window Choreography

Lighting slashed through the busy streets, reflected off of every window. It was a terrible house of mirrors. My head spun as I stood up. The ground pulled me down, dripping and rain-steeped. Oil patterns played across the dark, stony surface.

My bike grumbled near my side, the rear wheel still spinning slowly as the engine struggled along. My head pounded, hammering me into submission. I moved slowly, trying to balance the internal urgency of my worry with the physical burden of the pain. I looked around for any leaking gas. It was everywhere.

The bike coughed again, the engine starting to take in moisture from the rain and the wet tarmac. The lightning flashed again. Further away now, but still piercing my head’s slow march to clarity. My sense of smell came back all at once. The gasoline drenched air hit me all at once, but it helped to wake me up. I fumbled my helmet off as I got to my knees.

The tank on the bike had cracked when it spun into the curb. I hadn’t slid as fast, and my helmet had absorbed most of the impact, but I was still reeling. I couldn’t stand all the way up.

A sheet of fire sprung up, starting by the exhaust pipe and racing across the ground. I knew I should get up and run, but everything felt so heavy. The sheet spread to my jacket. I keeled over, and heard a crack. It wasn’t thunder this time, it was the gas tank, hurling the remaining gas outwards into the night air. The fireball danced across the windows of the nearby buildings; a warm, brief glow.